Untitled
by Clopin K. Trouillefou
Summary: Erik allows the sunlight to beckon him into the city, but hears the familiar sound of Gypsy music. And without realizing it, removes his mask, envoking a beating from the people around him. But then, a little girl touches his hand and his heart...


                   The sunlight had beckoned, willed him to abandon his dark sanctuary where mortal man did not leave alive. Paris was busy this day, but the alleys were dark and welcoming to this catacomb-dweller. His feet led him to the square of Notre Dame as he mind reveled in the sunshine, the fresh air, the feeling of day and life. He came to a dead halt however as his feet were about to lead into the light, into the busy square. He shied back into the shadows, like a demon shies back to the night. People would see him, they would stare, they would mock him… instinctually he raised his arms to hide his face. He wanted to go home where it was safe and dark, where he was master, but he was stopped. The lively music of Gypsies echoed through the square summoning an audience, he stopped in his tracks, his hatred for those nomadic people awake and thirsty for vengeance.

                   Four years he had spent as a child among those people, four years he was mistreated and abused by them. He spun around fast, his velvet cloak whirling around him as his vengeful hatred awoke, full throttle. His feet, his hatred led him out into the sunlit square; he was hardly conscious of what he was doing. His cold, intense gaze combined with his powerful, menacing demeanor were enough to clear a path through the crowd. A gust of wind swept his black Fedora hat from his head, his long black hair coming loose and blowing in the wind. Unconsciously, his hands slowly moved to his face of their own will and tore away the white mask revealing his deformities. His mind whirled through hateful memories, reliving those past horrors and fears, his hate growing. Every image in his mind's eye was as vivid as the day it happened, as the time it was real, crystal clear and sharp; never would he forget anything.

                  A sudden horrified scream snapped him from his hateful, vengeful thoughts, his mind regaining control of his body. He gazed around him, startled by the scream of horror, people staring in revulsion, horror, fear, hate… He looked down as his hand let go of the white leather that had covered his face, the wind sweeping it up and away from him. He watched in horror as his only protection from the cold cruelty of humanity was swept from his grasp. Suddenly something hit him from behind, his hand reached to the back of his head where it had struck. A ruined tomato fell from his waving black hair then another hit him in the back, dirtying his flowing velvet cloak. A young college student stood behind him, obviously the guilty one who had thrown the fruits.

"Go back to your crypt, corpse!" he taunted, his voice shaking a bit from fear.

"You will regret that, _monsieur_," was the growled response.

But before he could carry out his threat, other things were thrown at him and before long he was being beaten.

                   The leader of the Parisian Gypsies, Clopin Trouillefou, stopped, lowering his woodwind in shock, wondering what was going on.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"Someone's being bullied, I'd say," the Gypsy dancer replied.

Clopin glared angrily, but didn't dare intervene though it went against his morals and heart's desire. His niece grabbed one of his fingers and looked up at him with her large, round owl-like black eyes so much like his own. He sighed, knowing what she wanted of him with only looking in her eyes. It was like looking into his own; she was angry that someone was being hurt and longed to help them.

"Angel," Clopin sighed, trying not to give into those pleading eyes.

"Uncle, please!" she argued, "They're hurting someone! We need to help!"

"No," he refused, "We do not need to meddle in the affairs of others."

"But!" she said.

"No," he answered firmly rising to leave, "It only brings more trouble for us!"

"Uncle!" she cried, staying put as he turned to leave, "You always told me to help others when they needed it! Do unto others as you would have them do unto you!"

"Clopin Trouillefou!" he exclaimed grasping her by the shoulders, "That is the golden rule of Christianity! We are Gypsies! leave those damned hypocrites to their own devices!"

"But it's right! You always said that I should help those that ask or are in need because you never know when it may be an angel in disguise!"

He stopped; he knew she was right, but meddling in the affairs of others only caused unnecessary trouble for his people.

"If you won't, then…" she stopped to think before continuing on determinedly, "I will myself!"

He turned to look at her in shock as she stalked off toward the crowd; Clopin, or 'Clo' as he called her, was only three years old, the daughter of his twin brother. Just three days ago, he had found her in an alley in the cold wet rain, scared, crying, and very alone.

                   He cowered in fear, curled in a ball to protect himself best he could, his face hidden in his arms. He would not succumb to his rage, his bloodlust nor would he kill; he had sworn to Nadir he would not kill. His clothes were torn, his body bruised and battered; his finely tailored coat had been torn from his body, as had his velvet cloak. Suddenly, the onslaught ceased; he looked up and rose to his feet when he saw the small Gypsy girl. He pressed himself against the wall, as she laid her small hand on his larger one comfortingly. In her eyes, he saw her sympathy and pity and was, for once in his wretched life, touched. She could not have been more than three yet she had placed her hand on his, the hand of a freak, a monster!

"Go on!" a voice ordered, his head snapping up at the sound, "Haven't you caused enough torment already? Get back to your pathetic lives!"

Two Gypsies… protecting him; it was surprising enough for other humans to see him unmasked and still treat him as a man, but Gypsies…

                    He turned his attention to these two Gypsies that had so kindly protected him; the one that had sent the crowd away was a man. He had to be in his forties, his body lean and quite thin with wiry shoulders and long, thin legs. Despite them, he was quite short, no more than 5' 5", his arms seemingly long and fingers long, thin and fragile. His nose was long and pointed jutting out arrogantly, his jaw narrow. Thick black eyebrows arched above his large round black eyes, their depths masked to reveal no emotion. Their round shape reminded him of an owl, a fire seeming to burn in the black fathoms. Thick nearly shoulder length raven hair fell from beneath a large, very beaten blue hat atop his head. Two other earrings hung behind the standard gold hoop in his left ear: a smaller silver hoop decorated with a silvery white bead and a quartz stud.

                   The small girl still caressing his hand was pale, her skin perhaps a shade darker than a Parisian's, her thick messy raven hair was held back by a red scarf, bangs falling in her face. She bore a strong resemblance to the Gypsy man with her somewhat pointed nose, her narrow jaw though still a bit chubby with youth and the same black eyes. Her ears poked through the messy nearly shoulder length raven tresses, a single gold hoop in her left ear. She had the same build as the Gypsy man, her long legs unable to betray her lack of height. She wasn't as chubby as he would expect or as other children her age, but was quite thin. Thin, well shaped eyebrows arched over those black eyes she shared with her companion; they must be related.

"_Monsieur_?" the Gypsy man questioned quirking an eyebrow.

"_Oui_?" he answered.

"You are still in this world," the Gypsy said, a unique accent in his voice.

"Who are you?" he retorted, reverting to his prior bitter hatred.

"You don't recognize me?"

"Should I?"

"Then, allow me to introduce myself," the man doffed the large blue hat he wore as he made a low bow, "I am Clopin Kandala Trouillefou, King of the Gypsies, at your service. My name ring a bell?"

"It strikes a familiar ring, but none I can put my finger on, much like your accent. And the girl?"

"She is my goddaughter," she mimicked her uncle's bow, doffing an imaginary hat, "Clopin."

"She is named after yourself?"

"Not only am I her godfather and she turned out to be a miniature of myself, I delivered her. Plus, she and I bear a very strong resemblance, _non_?"

"I am grateful to you for your kindness toward myself. 'Tis a debt that cannot be repaid in any way, shape, or form, much as I loathe to admit it."

"You are one who hates my kind."

"I hold you in higher regards and you now have my respect and gratitude. The harm inflicted upon me as a child by your kind cannot be undone. I will offer a small token of gratitude."

"And what pray tell would that be?"

"My name…"

"Is Erik."

"How did you know that?"

"If you cannot recall I'll not waste your time or mine in telling you. All I will say is that we have met before in years past, long ago when you were a child. I must now take my leave before it grows dark. _Adieu_. Come, Clo, _allons_."

"I would hope," the little girl said, approaching Erik, "that we should meet again soon, _Monsieur_ Erik."

"_Ma petite_ Clopin," he knelt, daring to lay a hand on her head, "It was a generous deed you did for me today that I'll not soon forget if ever," he took both of her hands and kissed them, "You have my eternal gratitude, I am forever in your debt. None other have shown me such kindness. I would be truly blessed should I ever meet you again for you must be _une__ petite ange_ and I do look forward to it very much."

"Oh, Clopin!" her uncle said taking a black cloak and white mask out of nowhere, "Before I forget…"

"Oh!" she exclaimed taking them and offering them to Erik, "Do these belong to you?"

"_Oui__, petite mademoiselle_!" he confirmed, replacing his mask, but whirled his cloak around her shoulders, "But I want you to keep this as but a small token of my thanks."

"_Merci_,_ monsieur_ Erik!" she looked up into his face.

"There is nothing to thank me for," he said, "You protected me and that means a good deal more to me than a velvet cloak. Your protection offered me means more than you will ever know to me. Remember, _petite_, material possessions are easily replaced, but never forget those that helped you in your hour of need. Those are the things you must hold onto tightest because once they're gone they are gone for good. _A bientot_."

                   Erik watched them depart before slipping into the shadows and returning to his own home. There was no doubt in his mind that it was an angel in the guise of a Gypsy that touched and protected him. He knew he would see her again, he had to see her again; she had done him a kindness that he could not forget. If he did, he would be an ingrate that deserved more than Hell's flames. He was sorry that all he gave her was a simple velvet cloak though it was by far more than a Gypsy could ever afford. He knew he would never fully repay his debt to her, but he would repay her every chance he got. She could never understand how much a seemingly simple gesture of kindness truly meant to him.


End file.
